


Lord of Misrule

by Nothingshire



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothingshire/pseuds/Nothingshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a cold December 1809 evening at Hanover Square and the after dinner talk turns to Saturnalia, the Feast of Fools and Faerie spells that can make a Master and Servant change place. Obviously Mr Norrell does not have a copy of such a disreputable spell in his library and even if he did, no one would be foolish enough to read it out without thinking about the consequences very carefully beforehand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 16th December 1809 (Saturnalia Eve)

It was black and cold outside the house in Hanover Square and the snow threw itself against the windowpanes in silent handfuls. Within the library on the first floor, two magicians, two gentlemen and a servant were sitting at various distances around the flickering fire in the grate, thankful for its heat and for the thick curtains that stopt the winter draughts.

The magicians were of course Mr Norrell and his new pupil Mr Strange; the gentlemen were Mr Drawlight and Mr Lascelles; and the servant was Childermass. Mr Norrell was seated at his own desk, Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight next to the fire and Mr Strange as far away from Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight as he could manage while still feeling some of the heat. Childermass, as befitted his rank, sat in the corner furthest from the grate at his own little desk.

Mr Strange had come to the house for dinner some hours before, as Mrs Strange was away for a week visiting her Aunt-by-marriage Erquistone in Edinburgh and he had not been able to think of any good reason to refuse the invitation. He had intended to walk home to Soho Square around nine o’clock and perhaps look in at the Bedford on his way. However the falling snow had made this plan impossible, according to Mr Norrell and he had acceded to his tutor’s urgings and agreed to stay the night at Hanover Square. 

When the blizzard first began, Mr Lascelles had proposed that Mr Norrell’s staff be banded together to dig a path through the snow for his carriage to Lady Blesborough’s house – a mere half a mile away - where he was expected for a soiree. He had quite pooh poohed Childermass’s objection that this would be unfair on the servants, especially the maids.  
However when he realised that this would leave Mr Strange alone in Hanover Square for the evening and in possession of the battlefield for Mr Norrell’s affections so to speak, he quickly reconciled himself to making camp there as well.

Mr Drawlight had intended to accompany Mr Lascelles to Lady Blesborough’s whether he was wanted there or not; since his own mean little lodgings had no coal for a fire or glass in at least one window pane, he was happy to remain in the library.

The thicker the snow fell, the happier Mr Norrell, usually so fretful at bad weather, had become. 

“You will find it very hard going if you leave now, Mr Strange – like walking across a Yorkshire moor – wait another hour,” he had said at a half past eight when Mr Strange had first murmured to Lucas as to the whereabouts of his cloak.

“You will have to stay now,” he added at half past nine, when the chimney rattled in a sudden gust.

Childermass, who seemed in a more than usually contradictory mood, had taken care to walk to the window after each new bulletin, throw back the curtains with a snort and point out that London was not Yorkshire and that Mr Strange was old enough to take himself home if he wished. These observations had earned him a scolding from Mr Norrell, to the delight of Mr Lascelles. 

When Mr Strange had agreed that he would have to stay and had accepted a large glass of sherry-wine, Mr Norrell’s good humour – at least towards Mr Strange – was restored and he went so far as to clap his hands at the prospect of staying up so late – as far as 11 o’clock! - To talk on magic with his apprentice! - And then to see him at breakfast the next morning as well!

Nevertheless by ten o’clock the atmosphere in the library was a little ill natured and nobody was speaking. Mr Norrell was angry at Childermass for trying to send Mr Strange away; Childermass was annoyed at Mr Norrell for wanting Mr Strange to stay so desperately; Mr Lascelles was angry at Mr Strange for remaining; Mr Strange was annoyed at Mrs Strange for taking it into her head to visit Edinburgh at this time of year when she could have been seated opposite him in front of their own little hearth looking bewitching in the firelight and keeping him at home. But, being in general a good natured man who tried to make the best of his circumstances, the younger magician took a sip of his wine and said:

“Today is the 16th of December – it would be the first day of Saturnalia tomorrow if we were Ancient Romans. I have read in “A Curiouse & Secret History of Ancient Worlds” that when Julius Caesar came to Britain he told the faeries that met him of this festival. They were so charmed by it that they took the custom and turned it into our Feast of Fools with its Lord of Misrule and then taught it to Christians, as they call us humans. I suppose that that Feast is no longer celebrated because it disappeared with magic three hundred years ago.” 

“Saturnalia,” said Mr Lascelles with a sigh, before Mr Norrell could reply, “was a classical feast that paid homage to the god Saturn by allowing a carefully controlled measure of licence between the senatorial classes and their slaves for seven days. Servants and Masters dined and celebrated together and when it was done everyone went back to their proper places with no regret. The medieval Feast of Fools was a vulgar brawl for drunkards and thieves – the Romans would never have endured it. Had you received a proper grounding in Latin and History Mr Strange then you would know that. But I suppose that the Young Ladies’ Academy that you attended in Edinburgh did not provide a classical education.” 

“The female cousins with whom I was educated were very fine classical scholars,” said Mr Strange. 

“Indeed, that must be why you continued your education with the young ladies of Weymouth and Bath. But as for Faeries,” Mr Lascelles went on, “I am sure that Mr Norrell will agree with me that English Magic is not served by insulting Julius Caesar by piling him in with such creatures. As for the Feast of Fools it was simply an excuse for common fellows who do not know their place to injure their betters. Servants put in the place of their masters and the masters made to do their bidding! With the Revolution in France we are lucky it is no longer celebrated.”

“Some might say it was celebrated every day in this house,” said Mr Norrell, glaring at Childermass. “Mr Strange, ‘A Curiouse & Secret History of Ancient Worlds’ was not on your plan of study for this year. But as to your question; Faeries are very fond of disruption and if Julius Caesar did ever speak to them of Saturnalia I am sure that they would have adopted it as a feast of their own. There is a tale of a poor peasant of Lincolnshire, who, on the 16th December, broke open a stone while he was ploughing and found inside it a Faerie called Meg Bonegrind. She told him that she had been imprisoned there for two thousand years by a Faerie Lord whom she had displeased. In gratitude for her release she cast a spell on the peasant, whose name was Jack Lackford, which made him master of his Lord’s household for the next seven days. Everyone who lived there was compelled to follow his orders whether they would or no.”

“And what did he do with the spell, sir? Some merry nonsense that amused his neighbours?” said Mr Strange.

“No, Mr Strange; the next morning, he made all his fellow servants Lords and Ladies and parcelled out his master’s lands to them. Then he put his old lord to work pulling a plough like a horse until the man fell down and died.”

“And what happened at the end of the week, sir?”

“The rightful lord’s relatives came to his estate and hanged Jack Lackford and all his court of lords and ladies. Meg Bonegrind danced around the gallows and sang “Jack’s as good as his master,” while they died. 

“And the spell that the faerie cast? Do you have it?”

“No, Mr Strange, I do not,” said Mr Norrell, glancing at a shelf on the far side of the library as if to shew just how certain he was that the spell was not there. “In any case it would not work, I am sure – a spell created in Faerie would certainly not be effective so long after the retreat of English magic. Please put it out of your mind; it is not the kind of magic that we wish to revive.”

“We do not have that spell?” said Childermass from the corner.

“No Childermass, I do not,” said Mr Norrell.

“It is not written in the little blue volume at the end of the second North shelf?”

“No it is not!”

“It must be another book that I rescued from a pig sty in Cumbria and have dusted a hundred times since, then.”

Childermass returned to whatever papers he was working on at his own desk. Mr Strange attempted to send him a friendly smile and a roll of the eyes but received only a stare in return.

“I know nothing of the matter but I do wonder that the Romans looked so well in togas when they cannot be tailored,” said Mr Drawlight, who had apparently lost the thread of the debate some minutes before. “Do you think that the government might hold a triumphal procession for you Mr Norrell, when you have won the war for them? You could ride in a chariot drawn by lions and wear a laurel wreath, and Childermass could stand behind you in a red and golden ceremonial robe – it would suit his colouring exactly!”

“You are very kind, Mr Drawlight, to think of me, but the truth is that I expect to be dead of fever in Mr Norrell’s service long before this war is won,” said Childermass with a smile.

“Oh, make your will and pick out your coffin while you are about it!” burst out Mr Norrell, turning to look at his servant at last. “You know very well that you are not going to die! You have simply to ride to a village in the Welsh Borders and recover a copy of Martin Pale’s ‘Discourses’. There is no difficulty in it at all – I might as well send Brewer with the money tied to his saddle for all that you will have to do with it!”

At this point he remembered that he had not told Mr Strange that he had found this rare book and stopt abruptly.

“Yes, I can ride to Shropshire tomorrow in a winter blizzard but Mr Strange cannot walk to Soho Square,” muttered Childermass, loud enough for Mr Norrell to hear it but not so loud that he could deign to acknowledge it.

“You are to go out on a magical mission then Childermass?” said Strange. “I envy you the adventure!”

“What part in particular, Mr Strange?” said Childermass. “The frozen roads? The highwaymen? The nights in the open fields when there are no lodgings to be found? The brawling at the end when the book-owner grows suspicious and wants a hundred guineas more and I do not have it?”

“Oh all of it!” said Mr Strange who was perhaps feeling the heat of the library and the sherry wine a little too much. “Sleeping under hedges, arguing for magical knowledge: you will be like Ralph Stokesey walking into Faerie – like a magician of old!”

“He is not a magician, he is a servant,” said Mr Norrell “and he need only follow the clear directions I have given him. Childermass, you are to set out tomorrow and that is the end of it.”

“Oh yes,” said Childermass, pulling out his notebook, “very clear instructions. The owner of the book in question is a Farmer – or a Fiddler – or a Farrier: and he lives in either Quabbs or Nether Skyborry or some place that I cannot pronounce as it is in Welsh. Why can it not wait until the spring?”

Mr Norrell explained tersely that he could not risk so rare and valuable a book falling into the hands of another. Suppose a rival should find it? What rival could Mr Norrell have who knew Shropshire? Enquired Childermass, with a smile. Mr Strange immediately assured him that he was quite familiar with the two villages mentioned and that he could only agree with Mr Norrell that Pale’s ‘Discourses on the Kingdom of Light and the Kingdom of Darkness’ should be saved from them immediately.

“It is a great shame that I did not know that the volume was there before I came to London to be apprenticed to you, sir, or I could have brought it myself,” he told Mr Norrell. Childermass only snorted.

“But as you see, we were not in need of your services, Mr Strange – English Magic was not waiting for your appearance,” said Mr Lascelles. “And Mr Norrell, I can only compliment you on your insistence that your orders be obeyed to the letter – that is the proper way to run a household. After all, what has a servant to complain of? His food and clothing are provided for him; his duties are clearly laid out. He has only to obey. I envy the lower classes in some way. Were it not that my own talents would be wasted there I sometimes think that I should like to join them in their servitude as a kind of holiday.”

To break the silence that followed, Mr Strange asked to hear of the journeys of the Aureate Magicians, of Catherine of Winchester and Thomas Godbless. Mr Norrell, relieved that he had no more questions about the rare book in Shropshire, was happy to indulge him. Mr Lascelles, having won a skirmish or two in the course of the evening was happy to keep his powder dry for another occasion and simply sat and listened. Mr Drawlight gazed on the curtains and the firelight which was all the entertainment he required it seemed for that evening. Childermass retreated into his own shadow and thought his own thoughts.

At last it was almost midnight and everyone was ready for bed. Mr Norrell wished Mr Strange a goodnight and reminded Childermass that he was to ensure that there was a large breakfast and baths for all the guests in the morning before he left for the country. Davey and Lucas (who had been obliged to wait outside the door until the gentlemen were done) stifled their yawns and prepared to light Mr Norrell and the others to their bedchambers.

Only Mr Strange lingered behind for a moment, drinking the last of his sherry wine. Outside on the landing Mr Norrell was reminding Lucas to ensure that all the doors to the house were properly locked, as if Lucas might not have attended to this instruction when he had been given it the previous hundred times. Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight had already gone to their beds. For the first time since he had met Mr Norrell, the younger magician was alone in the library at Hanover Square.

He walked to the north bookshelf and pulled out the small blue book that Childermass had indicated earlier. On the outside it was a respectable volume, bound in the same dull style as the rest of Mr Norrell’s collection. Inside however, it was a ragged and torn manuscript, the handwritten words running in all directions across the pages through a maze of rough sketches of fantastical beasts and forests and seas. At the front was an index; Strange ran his finger down it until he read “A Spell to Raise up A Lord of Misrule.” 

Something about the crude little book so ill fitting to its cover took Strange away from the hot, closed house in Hanover Square, away from Mr Lascelles, and programmes of study. It made him think of a bare cold black wood where the snow was falling on empty branches, of Arabella in Edinburgh, of Martin Pale’s book lying forgotten and sleeping in a village far away.

He wanted all of a sudden to do something wild, something that he was not supposed to and he turned the pages until he reached the Misrule spell. It was a muddle of symbols and ancient words; Strange closed his eyes and sang them under his breath, then felt the music of their magic at the back of his head. Before he could stop himself he had cast the spell.

He put the book back on the shelf at once and looked around quickly before telling himself not to be so foolish. Mr Norrell had said that the spell would not work and Mr Norrell knew everything about magic. In any case who else was there in the library for him to have cast the spell on? He shook his head and moved towards the door.

All of a sudden, there was a cough and a sneeze from the far dark corner of the room. Strange glanced back and saw that Childermass was still sitting at his desk.

“Goodnight, Mr Strange,” said Mr Norrell’s servant. Strange bowed and walked a little unsteadily up to his room on the second floor, noting as he did so that the clock in the hall was striking midnight. Then he went to bed and slept very well. 

Mr Norrell lay awake for some time thinking of Mr Strange and their discussions with pleasure before burrowing down into his blankets and falling asleep. When he awoke as usual at 8 o’clock, he sat up in bed and looked around in amazement. There was no fire in the grate. He tiptoed over the cold floorboards by the light of the snow outside the window to his dressing room – there was no freshly drawn bath there. No morning coffee stood on his bedside table and - he waited for a whole five minutes - no Childermass knocked on his door to help him to dress. Mr Norrell was obliged to do his best and put on his own clothes and wig before walking down to the library through the strangely silent house to see what was about.

The library was cold as well but it was not empty – Childermass sat behind Mr Norrell’s own desk with his feet propped upon it.

“Ah, Gilbert,” he said as Mr Norrell opened the door and blinked at him in astonishment. “I wondered when you would be up and about your duties. Why have you not laid the fires and made the breakfast?”


	2. 17th December 1809 (First Day of Saturnalia)

17th December 1809 (First Day of Saturnalia)

Mr Norrell remained for some moments in the doorway, staring from Childermass at his desk to the empty fireplace until he was propelled bodily into the room by the arrival of Mr Drawlight at his back in a state of some agitation.

“Oh Mr Norrell, it is almost half past eight and Lucas has not brought me my shaving water and clean linen,” he exclaimed, his pretty dark eyes wide and shining. “I am expected at Lord Waldegrave’s at eleven – that scarcely gives me two hours to dress!” He paused. “Why Childermass – what are you about, you noodle? Can you not fetch me my chocolate?” Then he took a seat by the table.

But now Mr Norrell’s eyes had fallen on his desk and the small blue book that lay open upon it. He looked from the book to Childermass; Childermass grinned in return and nodded. Mr Norrell’s mouth fell open in horror.

“Who did this?” he said at last.

“I am glad to hear that someone has done something in this house this morning,” said Mr Lascelles, entering the room in his turn before Childermass could reply. He stopt when he saw the man of business still perched at Mr Norrell’s desk, then sneering-smiled.

“And here is the Robespierre of our little domestic revolution; at last your true nature has emerged for all to see.” Turning to Mr Norrell he added “Your kindness and good nature have been preyed upon too long sir. Allow me to send this fellow packing as he deserves.”

“Mr Lascelles, do not touch him” said Mr Norrell with some urgency, grasping that gentleman’s sleeve. Mr Norrell touching anyone was so singular that Lascelles stopt as he was told.

“Shall I go and find the footmen?” he asked. “Or we can have him arrested if you wish.”

“But not before he brings me my chocolate,” said Mr Drawlight from his chair. “Oh, and lay the fire, please, Childermass.”

“Allow me to explain,” said Childermass, rising to his feet. “A spell was cast last night – I am now your master – everyone who was in this household at midnight is now my servant - and will remain so for the next seven days. That sums it up plainly enough for you to follow, I think.” He sat down again and swung his feet back upon the desk.

“The spell that you spoke of last night, sir?” said Mr Lascelles, ignoring him and turning back to Mr Norrell. “The spell that you said you did not have? Not that I am criticising you of course, I understand why you would have kept it a secret, given the company, but why leave it on an open bookshelf where this rogue could cast it?”

“He could not cast it on himself. Someone else has read it out over him,” said Mr Norrell. “Magic has been done in _my_ household and on _my_ servant without my consent!” 

“As if I did not spend half my service with you being made to stand still while candles were burnt under my nose or bits of dried flowers shaken in my face,” said Childermass. “But remember please; I am not your servant now.”

“I suppose that the enchantment can be reversed easily enough: it cannot be very powerful if _you_ did not cast it, sir,” continued Mr Lascelles, ignoring Childermass with an ever more deliberate air. “And then, once that has been accomplished, we will have to ask ourselves a painful question; who could have been so reckless – so traitorous – and yet magically adept enough in a crude sort of way - as to cast such a spell in the first place?”

“The spell has worked? That is to say – who indeed?” said a voice behind them.

All eyes turned to where Mr Strange’s sleepy curls were peeping around the door jamb. 

“Whatever possessed you Mr Strange?” said Mr Norrell, wringing his hands.

But before the other could rebuke him as he deserved, the younger magician rushed into the room with a smile.

“My apologies, sir; I admit that I may have glanced at the spell out loud,” he said. “But Childermass! You are Lord of Misrule? How is it to live under such an enchantment? Tell me everything that you feel – I must write it down.”

“At the moment,” said Childermass, “as if there is a hollow in my belly. Four servants in my house and not an egg or a sausage on the table; I am afraid that it will not do lads.” He sat back in his chair and raised a questioning eyebrow at the surrounding company.

“Is Childermass the magician now then?” said Mr Drawlight, roused to interest at last from contemplating his fingernails.

“Perhaps you might begin to apologise to your master by ending this divertissement before it bores its audience, Mr Strange?” said Mr Lascelles.

“Of course,” said Strange. “We can discuss Childermass’s sensations later. Now, Childermass, hold still like a good fellow and I shall remove this enchantment in an instant.”

He held out his hand before Mr Norrell could stop him; Childermass regarded him with an indulgent look. There was a slight darkening of the air, then Strange danced one or two steps backward and sat down flat on the turkey carpet with an expression on his face rather like a spaniel puppy that has been gently but firmly lifted from the sofa where it had trespassed and then placed on the floor. 

“Did you do that?” he spluttered, staring up at the man of business from where he sprawled.

“It seemed to do itself,” said Childermass, pulling out his pipe. “Remember to ask your backside what its sensations were so that you may record them.”

“This spell secures you for seven days, Childermass, and then what will you do?” said Mr Norrell, speaking at last. “You cannot hope to escape the consequences of this.”

“A great deal may happen in a week,” said Childermass blandly. “You and Jonathan here may find yourselves dancing a jig on the Admiralty boardroom table and crying ‘Vive L’Empereur’. Harry,” – here he smiled at Mr Lascelles - “may realise that he has a great many things to confess to husbands of his acquaintance. Christopher may have to visit Boodles and play whist with his own money and no cards hidden in his cuffs. I am sure that you will all consider the consequences of _that_.”

Mr Lascelles clasped his hands behind his back and took up a stance by Mr Norrell’s left ear. “Do not be deceived by this little pantomime sir,” he muttered. “I now suspect that your servant and your pupil have collaborated to defraud you and to seize hold of your property and books; there is no more magic here than in Vinculus’s tent. A Fairie spell indeed! It would not dare to show its face at Hanover Square.”

“No whispering, if you please,” said Childermass from the desk, opening his tobacco pouch. “I have always been told that it is a bad habit to let servants gossip.”

Mr Lascelles sighed. “Very well; let us assume that you are now mad or drunk rather than returned to your no doubt criminal youth. We are all your servants in this house? Then I shall call someone from outside this household to arrest you and take you to prison or Bedlam where you belong. You can get the whipping that you deserve in either place.”

He stepped over Mr Strange who was still seated on the floor with a look of confusion, strode to the window, threw up the frame and called “Ho!” to one of the street sweepers who were standing and talking in the square below.

“Here is a shilling,” – he threw it down – “If you wish to earn ten shillings then deliver this message. Run to Lord Waldegrave’s house in Mayfair and tell him that the birthmark on Lady Waldegrave’s right upper thigh is the size of a guinea. Another gentleman claimed that it was a penny but I was able to assure him that I had made the comparison in person. My name is Hen...”

Here Drawlight and Strange, at Mr Norrell’s direction, were finally able to pull him back into the room and close the window. Lascelles was obliged to bite his hand until it bled a little to stop the motion of his tongue; it ran on for another minute until he was at last able to open his mouth without speaking further of his friend Lady Waldegrave.

“Truth is not your friend, Harry,” said Childermass, taking a puff of his pipe; he had not stirred from his seat throughout the altercation. “You must hold your tongue or else it shall be made to speak for you and then you will make some powerful enemies. I trust that you understand your situation clearly now. Indeed, I trust that you all understand how disobedience may be punished.”

He pointed the stem of his pipe at the two magicians and Drawlight. Mr Norrell in particular seemed struck by the threat of being obliged to utter his secrets in public.

“But I still do not understand what has happened,” said Mr Drawlight miserably. “Only that Childermass is not my friend anymore and that there is no breakfast.” The others, though silent were equally downcast.

“Visitors are sure to come to the house to discuss magic and the war, Childermass; how will you turn them away?” said Mr Norrell, rousing himself.

Childermass gazed upwards and ticked off his fingers. “Let me see; Mr Norrell has a headache – Mr Norrell has a backache – Mr Norrell has a stomach ache – it is too early – it is too late – it is too rainy – it is not rainy enough – Mr Strange is here – Mr Strange is not here – Mr Strange is drinking his tea – I think that I have had enough practice in the matter. There is no fighting since the Treaty was signed with the Austrians anyway. Oh, and Gilbert – you are my oldest retainer but a little decorum – you should address your master as ‘sir’. Do not make me turn you out without a character; you would not find new employment easy to come by at your time of life.”

“And what of the other household servants?” asked Strange, coming to stand by his tutor.

“The maids and Cook have been sent home with their wages for a week’s holiday; Davey and Lucas escorted them to the public coaches and made sure that they had inside seats. Then I suppose that they went to the Glasshouse Street boiling-cellar for their breakfasts.”

“They probably did,” whispered Drawlight with a glance at Lascelles. “I could run there and fetch them if you...”

Below them the hall door slammed; two sets of footsteps rang out on the stairs and then Mr Norrell’s coachman and footman were looking around the room in some amazement.

“Welcome back to Mr Davey and The Honourable Lucas,” said Childermass with a grin. “Now, it is past nine o’clock and nothing has been done in the house. Gilbert, you and Jonathan shall make my breakfast; Christopher can light the fires; and Harry can go the stables and see to Brewer.”

Davey looked at Mr Lascelles who was now slumped in an armchair and sullenly dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Are you sure, Mr Childermass?” he said. “I know that he might not look it but he has breeding after all – you should not treat him roughly.”

“Thank you Davey,” said Mr Lascelles in surprise at this unexpected consideration.

“He means the horse, you fool,” said Childermass. “You and Lucas go with him – to watch him mind, not to do the work yourselves. As for Brewer, he can look after himself. The rest of you have your orders.”

Mr Strange looked to Mr Norrell; Mr Norrell threw one last glance at Childermass and then walked to the door.

Davey watched the two magicians shuffle past him and down the stairs to the kitchen. Mr Strange’s good nature and fund of stories had made him something of a favourite with the Hanover Square staff. Mr Norrell was a distant master; perhaps an unthinking one, even selfish. But he was not cruel or malicious and the sight of his wig bobbing down into the dark silent house made his coachman turn to Childermass and say – 

“Lucas and I like a holiday sir and we were very pleased when you told us that we were to have one, but why are all the gentlemen servants instead?”

“What is it usually when something you do not understand occurs in this house, Davey?”

“So it is for magic,” said Davey with relief.”We shan’t bother ourselves about it then.”

“That’s right: just do as I say and do not leave the house without my instructions and all will go well. Now take Harry to the stables and I will see you later.”

Davey nodded, satisfied; obeying Childermass’s orders was the greater part of his life and he had no objection to doing it on holiday as well. “It’s the door on the right, sirs,” he called down the stairs to the two magicians who were standing puzzled in the hallway, then “come on then Harry, we can go down the back stairs,” to Mr Lascelles.

Lascelles, seeing no means of opposing his fate at present, walked to the door with a scowl, leaving Childermass at his desk and Drawlight in horrified contemplation of the coal bucket.


	3. The Kitchen

The basement kitchen was empty, cold and clean, Mr Norrell’s cook and maids having as usual taken until midnight to scrub it ready for the morning before they departed on their unexpected holiday. Mr Norrell sat down in Cook’s own wooden armchair by the empty hearth and stared at the faint light from the small windows set high above him. The street outside was still thick with snow and the only signs of the passersby were the faint shadows that they threw on the opposite wall and their occasional muffled footsteps.

“Sir, I can only apologise for my rashness,” said Strange, coming to stand in front of him. “But now that we are alone, instruct me on how I may assist you in removing the spell. You do not think that if you appealed to Childermass as his master that he would see fit to raise it himself?”

“It cannot be removed,” said Mr Norrell. “It will lift itself in seven days and until then we must endure it.”

“You do not seem as angry as I supposed that you would be sir: with either myself or Childermass.”

“Childermass is as much under this enchantment as we are; he could not return to his proper place if he wished to. As for you Mr Strange, no reproach from me will deepen your regret.” He paused; “you do regret casting that spell do you not?”

“Oh, of course, sir, I suppose; but there really is no magic that can shorten it?”

Mr Norrell fixed him with a look. “What did you feel when you were pushed to the ground?”

Strange frowned. “As if I were suddenly standing somewhere else – a flat moor filled with thorns and lit by a sickly white sun. As I moved forward, the thorns grasped my legs and drew me back. And yet at the same time I was present in the library with you and the rest of the company. I cannot explain it.”

“That is because it was the magic of Faerie; it has no rational element. Have you not already attempted to remove the enchantment silently by yourself?”

“Ten times at least when we were still in your study. But whenever I try to hear the spell I wish to cast – its music – it is as if a bell rings in my ears and I cannot proceed. **”**

“So you see that the magic cannot be lifted prematurely; even I could not do it, so I was not so foolish as to try.”

Strange thought for a moment. He wanted to confess that when the bell had stopt him, he had felt for a second as if he had lost his powers both as a magician and a man; as if he had laid down with Bell and could not please her. But this was not something fit for his tutor’s ears. Instead he said; “Once again I am sorry, sir.”

“Whereas I am sorry for you, Mr Strange; you are a young magician and everything has come easily to you. I remember what it was to wake in the morning not knowing whether magic would obey me that day – I knew it for many years and I assure you that we can both bear a week of it. But I will admit that I look forward to this being over. I have not had my coffee or chocolate; I have not read at all since I woke.”

He slumped down in the chair all of a sudden; and Strange set himself to comforting his tutor. He lit the fire already prepared in the grate and found a small saucepan that could be used to heat milk; then he ventured into the larder for supplies.

“At least we are in the kitchen and not in the stables, sir,” he said, returning with an armful of provisions. “I would rather wrangle bacon and eggs than deal with Brewer! It is not as if we will suffer like Anne Bloodworth for two hundred years. And it will make a fine story to tell Mrs Strange when she returns.”

“You mean to tell your wife of this?” said Mr Norrell raising his head.

“Why yes; Arabella and I tell each other everything.”

Mr Norrell, who had no one to whom he told everything, not even himself, could only wonder at this.

The milk had begun to foam on the range; Strange rescued it with a flourish and added a cloud of ground cocoa.

“Your chocolate, sir,” he said, pouring it into the nearest mug and presenting it to the older magician. “And here is the only book that I could find.” It was _The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy_ by Mrs Hannah Glasse. Mr Norrell clutched at the volume for the want of any alternative and opened it at random. A few moments of staring at printed words on a page made him feel better and he began to read.

Cook evidently took her (or his – Mr Norrell had never ventured to ask Childermass whether he had engaged a man or a woman for the task) – duties seriously. There were notes in a rough but clear print on almost every page, recording for instance that Portugal Cakes (his own favourite) should be made with ground almonds not flour, that _The English Art of Cookery According to the Present Practice_ had a far superior receipt for turnip soup, or what the effect of a particular dish had been (“Rich Cake – leave out half pint of brandy in future – kitchen boy drunk”). Mr Norrell would have been offended to the bone had another made the comparison but under his present circumstances he thought of his own careful notations in the books upstairs and felt comforted to know he had a fellow scholar (of a sort) in his household.

Mr Strange meanwhile had brewed himself a pot of coffee and placed several more piles of supplies on the kitchen table.

“This will be the best breakfast that Childermass – my apologies – _T’Master_ – has ever eaten I swear. Wait - does Childermass like eggs?”

Mr Norrell said that he had no notion.

“Everyone likes eggs; I shall make a ragoo of them as Arabella does,” said his pupil. “Once Childermass has eaten it, we will be sitting in the library and reading with him within the hour.”

He took up an egg. “I wonder if I could use enchantment to help cook it sir? I know that you dislike domestic magic in all its forms but it would speed things along and the spell may allow it if it realises that we are not attempting to poison our Lord and Master.” He tapped the shell with his finger, closed his eyes and muttered. The egg trembled for a moment then sprang from his grasp and dashed itself to the floor.

“And were you attempting magic there Mr Strange?” said Mr Norrell, eyeing the spreading yolk at his feet.

“In truth I cannot tell,” said Strange. Neither, said his tutor, could he. Would Mr Strange not be better advised to consult _The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy_?

No, said Strange. He had watched his wife prepare the finest ragooed eggs in Europe many a time without a receipt and it would be far simpler to follow her - “She uses paprika I believe.” He took up the rest of the eggs, placed them to boil in a saucepan then frowned; he was beginning to wish that he had spent more time observing Arabella’s cooking and less time admiring the pretty movement of her fingers as she chopped whatever green and leafy ingredient it was that he could not quite remember but which was (he thought) essential to the dish. He ran over to the fire to stop the saucepan boiling over then seized a bowl, filled it with cream and a slab of butter and began to beat it with a fork.

“’ _To make a ragoo of eggs’,_ ” said Mr Norrell. “’ _Boil twelve eggs hard, then_...’”

“I do not need a receipt, sir,” said Strange, hunting wildly for spices amongst Cook’s many bottles and jars as the saucepan bubbled on the fire. The kitchen began to fill with steam.

“You will not succeed without instruction; Mrs Glasse says that we need nutmeg, anyway.”

He did not need nutmeg or instruction said Strange sweeping his hair out of his eyes and stabbing at the butter with his fork; of course if Mr Norrell would like to move from the fire and take up battle with the foodstuffs himself, he, Strange, would be pleased to observe. No, said Mr Norrell clutching his mug of chocolate closer, he was quite happy to aid Mr Strange by supervising and critiquing his efforts where he was. He would, for instance, suggest firstly that Mr Strange keep a closer eye on the eggs now boiling on the range.

There was an ominous crack from the saucepan as if in agreement. His pupil ignored it and held up a small tin labelled ‘paprika’. He pulled off its lid with a flourish; a cloud of red dust flew out and he collapsed in sneezes.

“’ _Take a pint of pickle mushrooms_ ’,” intoned Mr Norrell with a tut.

“Sir, unless you can call up a faerie servant to help me then I think that I can do without your assistance,” said Strange with one final desperate thrust at the butter which remained quite unmarked by his efforts.

“Oh, attempt it yourself, Mr Strange. Perhaps the Raven King will come to boil that kettle – it would be the most useful thing he will have done in three hundred years.”

The saucepan began to give off a burning smell. “I am pleased to see that your mood has recovered enough for you to jest, Mr Norrell,” said Strange “but to speak seriously; do you not wonder if some invisible spirit from The Other Lands may be observing us – I am sure that I have heard a faint tinkling bell for some moments. Could it not be ringing from Faerie?”

Mr Norrell pointed to the ceiling where the kitchen bell marked ‘Library’ was shaking on its hook.

Strange sprang to the range and peered into the saucepan; it had boiled dry and only one egg of the original twelve looked in a fit state to be eaten. He took a savage bite out of it himself and glared at the library bell.

“We will have to serve up what we can find,” he said and made for the pantry with a tray. He returned with it piled high with several cakes, two pies and some cheeses. He set down the tray long enough to put the pot of coffee and the milk jug in Mr Norrell’s hands, then hastened up the main stairs, ignoring Mr Norrell’s protests that they should use the servant’s entry.

At the library door Strange knocked with his foot then looked to his master for assistance; Mr Norrell indicated that he was already holding both a coffee pot and a milk jug and could not be expected to shoulder further burdens. Finally the door was opened by Mr Drawlight, now sporting rather more black patches on his face than were fashionable.

“A plum cake for breakfast – how very a la mode,” he said as Strange heaved the tray onto the central table before he dropt it. “Do come and take a seat Mr Childermass and I shall serve you.”

Mr Norrell looked at the library fireplace which now housed a sorry collection of coals and a spluttering flame.

“I have decided for the good of the house that Christopher shall stay away from fires,” said Childermass who was still seated behind the desk, following Mr Norrell’s eyes.

“There are fifteen fireplaces in this residence and I set fire to three of their chimneys in twenty minutes,” said Drawlight. “Now I am to be Mr Childermass’s personal servant.” Mr Drawlight believed in the social ladder – so long as he had someone above him whose coattails he could cling to and someone below him to kick it did not matter who and Childermass was as good a master as any for the present.

“We’ll see,” said Childermass, taking a puff of his pipe.

“Tobacco is not fashionable before breakfast, sir,” said Drawlight, shaking his head.

“The smoke soothes an empty stomach. Now what do we have?”

He came to sit by the table, (Drawlight pulling out his chair) and then looked at his three servants, all of whom were eying the spread.

“You had better all fill your bellies as well, then,” he said; the others needed no second invitation and sat down at once. Childermass took the plate with the only Portugal cake on it out of Drawlight’s hands and silently placed it before Mr Norrell.

“This is very generous of your lordship,” said Mr Strange, attacking a meat pie.

“Not at all,” said Childermass. “I know that putting a few plates on a tray and carrying it up a flight of stairs is hard work.”

“Oh - but since you are pleased with breakfast, may we know what other duties we have? Arranging the library perhaps? Or reading to you?”

“Finish eating first; I would not want to send the two of you out on an empty stomach.”

“Send us out?”

“Yes,” said Childermass, “I have an errand for you and Gilbert here to run. It is very simple and I am sure that you can manage it: I would have undertaken it myself but with my new duties as master obviously I cannot.”

“What is it then?” said Mr Norrell, reaching for the second meat pie.

Childermass took out his notebook. “You are to go to Shropshire – or perhaps Wales – and fetch back a book – Martin Pale’s _Discourses._ Here, all the details are written on this piece of paper” – he tore a page out of his notebook and handed it to Strange.

“You mean us to go out in this weather?” exclaimed Mr Norrell, dropping the pie.

“Indeed - it is not as if it will kill you,” said Childermass. “And of course, you will have Brewer to guide and instruct you. I am sure that two magicians and a horse can accomplish what I was ordered to do.”

“But since this spell was cast, neither of us can be sure what magic we are allowed to perform!”

“You will have the same spell that I always do – Belasis’s Scopus; what more do you need?”

“I will have to take at least ten books with me to consult!”

“You are going to buy a book not open a travelling library – far better for you to take a pair of pistols.”

“Really Childermass what do you have to complain of in my employment of you that you should treat me thus?” said Mr Norrell, quite overcome.

“Now, sir, I shall be with you,” said Mr Strange. “Shropshire is my home county after all; you will enjoy a vacation there am sure. And on the way back we can take turns in reading Martin Pale to each other. And to think that until last night I did not even know that the volume existed!”

This thought did not seem to cheer Mr Norrell at all; Childermass smiled at it then turned to Drawlight and told him to run down to the gun cabinet and fetch a pair of pistols.

“You trust him with firearms?” said Strange as Drawlight hastened out of the door.

“It is not for you to say what your fellow servants are to be trusted with, Jonathan,” said Childermass. “Now, let us visit the stables.”

 


End file.
